


insensible

by hiorheyhailey



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: F/M, all the hargreeves I guess., ben is still dead, definitely five, diego doesn't die, klaus is in it too, maybe allison, not luther, vanya ?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiorheyhailey/pseuds/hiorheyhailey
Summary: Diego's stutter is back. You're sick.





	1. part one

“Y-you aren’t nervous?” Diego asks, bouncing his knee up and down. You shake your head and continue trying to thread the needle. “W-w-well I am.” He mumbles, fumbling with his zipper. “No news is good news.” You hum, finally getting it and continuing your embroidery. He stops you, taking the needle and hoop from your shaking hands. “Don’t lie.” He whispers. You smile softly and swallow. “Yes. I’m a little nervous. But some answers will be nice, right?” The doctor interrupts you, his face creased with worry lines, and his eyes narrow. “I know you’re tired of hearing this, y/n. But we do need to run more tests.” He says. Both Diego and you sigh. Diego rubs his face and stands up. “How many more until you figure out what’s wrong? How can you help her if you don’t know?” He asks. His stutter is gone. He’s no longer nervous— he’s angry. The doctor smiles sympathetically. “A diagnosis will help, yes. But we’re treating her symptoms now.” He says calmly.

Treating your symptoms means a hormone shot at night. Sleeping pills to get you through the night. An anticonvulsant too keep you from seizing. Pain pills to keep you from doubling over in pain every five minutes. A feeding tube because you can’t eat. And you’re used to hearing “more tests”. You’re shocked Diego has stayed. You’re tired of being sick. Both of you are silent on the drive home— there isn’t anything to say. Diego’s biting his fist, his other hand tight on the wheel. He’s the first to break the silence. “We can find another doctor.” He says. You shake your head, grabbing his hand. “Dr. Cullen has been flying specialists in. He’s lovely.” Diego shakes his head but entwines his fingers with yours. “It isn’t fair, y/n” He mumbles, his thumb beginning to rub circles around your knuckle. “It’s my life.” You respond. 

Dr. Cullen has suggested another spinal tap. The results from the first time weren’t clear enough. He allows Diego in the room to hold your hand. If you had to guess, he is more nervous than you. As he inserts the needle, you can’t stop replaying last nights events in your head. If you could move, you’d be running your fingers through the little bit of hair you had. Last night was the worst. You had tried to kick Diego out, threatened to slit your throat, and cut all your hair off. The first diagnosis you ever received was psychosis. And then the seizures started, and it became so much more. It was a miracle Diego stayed. The procedure doesn’t last long. Diego is rubbing his thumb over your head the entire time. If you were anxious, you wouldn’t show it. 

“You did so good baby.” He says, helping you into the car. Dr. Cullen has promised results by the end of the week. Although a diagnosis won’t be much help unless it’s curable. And you have an inkling feeling it’s not. Diego always takes good care of you. His hand tightly wrapped around your waist as he walks you into the house, his hand touching your back lightly, so he can make sure you don’t stop breathing while you’re sleeping, his ear pressed against the bathroom door while you shower to make sure you don’t fall. You don’t mind it. 

 

You stand up abruptly and stare at him, watching as he jolts awake. “You always treat me like a fucking baby. I’m not a fucking baby.” You say. He rubs his eyes and turns the light on. “Of course you’re not a baby. It’s 3 am y/n.” He responds, his voice raspy. Your roll your eyes, and turn the light on your nightstand on. “I don’t have a fucking bedtime. I’m 27 years old!” You yell. He sighs, but gets out of bed and tosses his sweats on. “Please y/n.” He whispers, making his way towards you. He wraps his arms around you. “You had such a good day, remember? We went for a walk, and then you made those peppermint brownies. You even helped take some decorations out of the garage.” He whispers. You try and shrug him off— but he continues. “You’re okay, you know that. I’m here, you’re here and alive. Doc is gonna call soon, and we’re gonna make you better.” You pull away and push your hair out of your face. He doesn’t move. “I don’t need to get better. I’m- I’m-” you start. “I-I’m-” You fall backward onto the bed, defeated. “I don’t know what I am,” you whisper, closing your eyes. You pretend to be asleep while Diego lifts you and puts you down in the right position. You feel him drape the covers over your body, and crawl into bed next to you. As always, he rests his arm against you. You eventually fall asleep. 

“Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.” Dr. Cullen says as you’re sitting down across from him in his office. Diego grips your hand tighter. “I can’t believe we missed it with your first MRI. I’m sure it’s because it’s very rare.” He tells you. You and Diego look at each other, and then back at him. Diego speaks first. “And what’s the prognosis?” He asks. Dr. Cullen goes red. He looks at your chart, and back at Diego. “Not good. There’s no cure. Most patients end up comatose.” He mutters. He does that thing where he smiles like it’s going to be okay. “And the symptoms match up with mine?” You ask. Dr. Cullen nods, and hands you a “Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease Fast Facts” print out. The paper makes it look like it’s not as grim as it is. The paper also says it’s fatal. You swallow, reading over it. Sudden personality changes, depression, memory loss, insomnia, difficulty swallowing, sudden convulsions and jerky movements. “Yes.” You answer yourself. Diego looks over your shoulder and reads over it for a moment before pulling back. “I-I-It’s f-f-f-fatal?” He stutters. Dr. Cullen nods slowly, handing Diego a printout. Diego scans it and hands it to you. Death usually occurs within a year. You’ve been sick for ten months. 

“How about fiji?” You ask, staring out the window. Diego and you were planning your honeymoon, because you never had one. Better late than never, right? Diego shrugs, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. “Isn’t it expensive?” He mumbles. “Who knows. Is money an issue? We’re planning a month long honeymoon in less than two weeks, it’s going to be expensive.” You say. Diego looks at you, and then back at the road. You can feel him roll his eyes. “Are there doctors close by?” He asks. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your head back, the loud noise escaping your mouth. “It’d be so selfish of me to die in Fiji.” You say. Diego swallows, and rolls his eyes again. You know that’s what he’s scared of. “Whatever you say y/n.” He mutters, turning the radio up. It’s some dumb country song, but you don’t mind. It’s the perfect weather for country music. You roll your window down, and hang your feet out. Even though you just received a fatal diagnosis, you’re feeling great.


	2. part two

“Bora Bora.” Diego says out of the blue, looking up from his phone. He hands it to me. He’s been looking at hotels. “Five hundred a night?” I ask. Diego shrugs, and sighs. He takes his phone back, and I watch as he opens the banking app. “Treatment is really setting us back.. We could dip into..” He starts. I shake my head, and stare at the jar filled with money on the fireplace. “We’re not dipping into the baby fund.” I say. He frowns. “Maybe I could ask my dad for some money.” You say, fiddling your thumbs. Diego shakes his head, and takes your hand into his. “I’m not going to make you do that. I’ll figure it out.” He says. 

Diego doesn’t sleep anymore. You can tell because he always snores softly when he sleeps. Now he’s completely silent. And most nights he makes sure you’ve fallen asleep in his arms, but every once in awhile he’ll shake you awake, just to make sure you will wake up. It’s annoying, but you know it’s only because he cares. He wakes you up at 8am everyday to eat breakfast, and he definitely makes sure you eat. Lunch is always at 1, you don’t have a choice. And dinner at 6. This is how it’s been the past two weeks, and this is how it will be until it happens. 

The trip is booked. You finally ended up opening your wedding presents, and allison had given you two a check. It was generous enough to almost pay for half of the trip. You had decided to only go for three weeks, because truth be told you didn’t know how long it would be until it happened. You and Diego weren’t sure how to refer to it. You suggested the big bang, but he told you it was too morbid. So it became only known as that—it. Diego didn’t even want to talk about it. He avoided the subject of your health completely, until it came to your meds. 

“So, I spoke to Leanne.” He enters the living room, takes the remote from me, and turns the TV off. Just like that. “Oh yeah?” You ask, blinking. You don’t know what he’s going to say next. “She says you haven’t refilled your medication and you should have been out of it two weeks ago.” He says. Oh. Right. She’s right. You needed refills two weeks ago. “I- I um, stopped taking them.” You say, eyes trained on your lap. You can’t see Diego’s angry expression, but you can feel the heat radiating off of his face. “You can’t just stop taking your medicine y/n! It’s a big decision!” He probably doesn’t know he’s yelling. You scrunch up your face and stand up abruptly. “I told you before. I’m not a fucking baby. They made me sick. And I want to have some fucking peace before I end up six feet under!” You yell back. Diego’s face softens. Yours doesn’t. “Just because you’re the sick one doesn’t mean that what you do doesn’t affect us all. I’m going to be alone, y/n. I’m the one who has to watch you suffer and know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I made a vow to protect you until death do us part, and I can’t even do that!” He throws himself down on the couch, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t- I didn’t think about it that way.” You mumble, sitting down next to him. You grab his hand and rest it against your face. “Diego, you’re never going to be alone. Even after I’m gone.” 

 

Four hours of packing. An hour in line at the airport, two more hours of waiting. You were cleared to fly, as long as there was a doctor on board. The airline provided one. A ten hour flight to Los Angeles, a two hour layover, and 15 long, agonizing hours to Bora Bora. But you made it, and it was beautiful. Diego as corny as he was, couldn’t help but tell you that your eyes were just as blue as the water every chance he had. And neither of you, not even him, mentioned medicine or sickness, or it. Even though you both knew that you were getting worse. You couldn’t even swim for long without getting tired, and you hated that it didn’t become the trip you wanted. There was so much you two wanted to do— that you simply couldn’t. Swimming with dolphins was top on your list, but you weren’t cleared for swimming in deep water. Being able to pet them and feed them was the most you could do, but you took it. “It’s better than nothing.” Diego would remind you every time you felt a pang of sadness, or guilty. You know he wanted more than anything to be dancing with you in a club somewhere. He wanted to learn the local lingo, try the food, and learn everything about being Polynesian. But he didn’t complain. He only held you when you shook at night, cleaned you up when you vomited, and carried you to bed when you were too weak to walk on your own. This was the “in sickness and in health” that came sooner than it should have. 

The last day of the trip was when it happened. You slipped, falling down the stairs and onto the concrete on your back. It wasn’t the big bang. It was the catalyst. A thoracic compression fracture— that fortunately for you, didn’t require surgery, but you stayed in Bora Bora for four more days, until you were good enough to be flown back. Never better, or healed, or healthy. Always “good enough”. According to your calculations, by the time you got home, you’d have two weeks left. Two weeks left with a broken back. Two weeks until you left Diego with a broken heart, until he would mourn you, and worry himself with grief. Two weeks until you knew his stutter would be back for good.


	3. part three

Neither of you wanted to say it— but you were both waiting for it. You were like a ticking time bomb. And as if Diego wasn’t already waiting on you hand and foot, he definitely was now. “Come on. We have to get it notarized.” You say, holding the paper in your hands. You read over it again. I, y/n Hargreeves do not want to be kept alive on machines. I understand that this can, and will, resolve in death. I do not wish to be resuscitated. I do not wish for my husband to make any decisions in the event I am unable to myself. Diego takes the paper from you. “I can’t, I can’t have any say?” He asks. You nod, smiling sympathetically. You both know why— his emotions will always cloud his judgement. He nods, sucking on his teeth, trying to keep his poker face. “Maybe a notary can come here?” He suggests. You sigh loudly, and take the paper back. “Diego I’ve got to get out of the house sometime. Besides, I’ve got to get blood work anyways.” You say. His confidence falters and he bites his lip. But he doesn’t say anything, he just grabs the keys. “Well?” He asks, staring at you. “Let’s go babe.” He beckons you towards the door. 

Twenty minutes later he’s helping you out of the car at the UPS store. And ten minutes later, it’s official. “Aaaaand now to labcorp.” You say, staring at the now notarized letter. Diego frowns for you. Almost a year of routine blood work, and you haven’t gotten over your fear of needles. “It’s okay. I’ll hold your hand.” He teases, helping you back into the car. The car ride is quiet, they usually are these days. There’s nothing to talk about except for your health, but neither of you feel like talking about that anyways. Labcorp isn’t far from the UPS store, so you’re there in a short amount of time. 

And even though he was teasing, Diego still holds your hand every time they poke you. “Sorry love, I can’t get a vain.” The nurse says, poking you once more. Finally she’s got something. You swear they take a pint of blood— you count at least eight tubes before tucking your head into Diego. He rubs soothing circles over your thumb, and you can’t help but cry into his chest softly. This could be the very last time he holds you when you get your blood work. This could be the last time you leave the house conscience. You get a minnie mouse band aid, but it doesn’t make up for the bruises you’ve got from being poked and prodded. “Can we get pizza?” You ask, Diego’s arms wrapped around you as the two of you walk back to the car.  
“I suppose.” He answers, opening the door for you. 

You beg and beg for pizza hut and he finally gives in, but not before making a comment about how picky you are. “They have the best crust.” You argue, sliding into the booth. Diego laughs. He orders the both of you a large pizza to split, and a salad for you. But by the time the food comes, you appetite is gone. It takes everything in you to even take a bite, and even then you gag. Diego has no problem finishing the pizza for both of you, kissing your hand everytime you stared off into space. 

When you’re home you empty your change into the baby fund. Although you know it’s an impossible dream, it’s still a dream. Diego stares, but doesn’t say anything besides, “You hungry?” You shake your head no, and rub your thumb over the framed ultrasound photo. “Do you think if god had given us a baby I’d still be sick?” You ask. Diego shrugs. “I would hope not.” He says. He sits down in the armchair, sipping a cup of coffee you hadn’t realized he made. You join him, sitting down on the couch. “At least you could finally turn the nursery into a gym.” You mumble. “Stop that.” He puts the mug down. “You won’t even go in there, and you expect me to tear it apart? Besides, miracles do happen, y/n.” He responds. You roll your eyes, but don’t respond.  
You turn in early, deciding that sleeping is better than sitting in the living room silently. It’s only 8pm, but Diego follows you back anyways. He wraps his arms around around you, rocking you lightly to sleep. You can’t help but start to sob into his arms. He cries with you. Grieving you before you’re gone. Grieving the baby you lost, the baby you didn’t get the chance to have, and the life you don’t get to live together. Your only hope is that Diego will move on, and won’t grieve you forever. That he won’t spend the rest of his life alone, and that he won’t go insane missing you. But you know it’s close to impossible. You had never known anyone who loved anyone as much as he loved you.  
Your tears were fueled by fear. Anxiety that Diego would stay hung up on you, worried that he might do something horrible if you’re not around to save him. The four years you had together were amazing. Sure you lost a baby and got sick, but you also built a life, a house, a career.  
It’s six am when you jolt awake, drenched in sweat and blood. You gasp, waking Diego up. “D-D-Diego.” You choke through your sobs. He sits up abruptly, rubbing his eyes. “Hey, hey hey. You’re okay.” He shushes you. You point to the pool of blood gathered between your legs. He swallows, rubbing his face. “It’s fine. We’re gonna go to the hopsital right?” He climbs out of bed and tosses his sweats on, and then a tee. 

A half hour later you’re being admitted. And within ten minutes you’re in a bed. They take your temperature and heart rate and blood pressure before deciding on an ultrasound. “And who’s your primary care physician again?” The nurse asks, staring at the computer. Diego blinks. “Dr. Matthew Cullen. Why does it matter, what’s wrong?” He questions. The nurse doesn’t have a good poker face, she wears her emotions. “Did you guys- Did you guys know y/n was pregnant?”


End file.
